


Hurt

by mauralee88



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Depression, I have no idea, I'm so sorry, No named characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-14
Updated: 2012-11-14
Packaged: 2017-11-18 16:10:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/562904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mauralee88/pseuds/mauralee88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every day is a struggle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hurt

**Author's Note:**

> Right, so, I have no idea where this came from or why I'm even posting it. Sorry for the angst.

It’s hard.

 

Every day is a struggle. Just to move, to get out of bed and leave the house, the hotel, the bus.

 

It hurts.

 

But he does it. He gets up and he moves and he interacts with the world and he survives. But it’s hard and it hurts. And no one knows. No one cares enough to pay attention to him, to see how much he struggles, and how much he hurts.

 

In their interviews it always gets a laugh when the others talk over him. So he stops talking. He sits and he lets the others do all the talking. He smiles in the right places, and laughs when appropriate. But he doesn’t talk.

 

Why bother? They don’t listen. They don’t listen, and they don’t care. He’s a voice and a prop. That’s all. A pretty face and a made up image.

 

The others laugh and joke and think that he’s on board with their games and lies. He just doesn’t have the energy to try and make them listen. It’s not that they’re bad people, or mean. They’re funny and nice and they all get along like brothers.

 

All except him.

 

He’s there, playing along with it all, acting the part. But it doesn’t matter.

 

It’s hard and it hurts, but he keeps moving and doing and pretending to live.

 

Smile at the camera.

 

Laugh at the joke.

 

Sing and prance and just ‘be’ for the crowd.

 

It drains him.

 

Days are bad, but nights are worse. The others are always so worked up after a show. All he wants to do is be alone in the quiet.

 

He thinks in the quiet.

 

He thinks and he remembers.

 

When he was young and his parents ignored him.

 

When he was in school and his classmates ignored him.

 

The people that called themselves his friends, they ignored him too.

 

No one listened when he spoke. No one cared when he cried. No one paid attention when he left a room or a party.

 

He tried once, to explain to his parents how he felt. They just stared at him, and then turned away and talked about what to have for dinner.

 

It hurt.

 

It hurt and it made it harder for him to breathe, to move, to be.

 

And now, now there are so many people watching. So many eyes focused on them. Someone had to see, right? Someone out there had to notice how hard it was for him. How much it hurt to just exist.

 

But no one says anything.

 

No one sees.

 

No one cares.

 

They move so fast, a flash and blur of light.

 

He is transparent.

 

Alone in his room he wonders what will happen if he lets himself give in. If he doesn’t get up, if he doesn’t move.

 

If he just stops.

 

Will anyone notice? Will they care?

 

When they’re finally home, finally done with being ‘them’ he stops.

 

Stops trying.

 

Stops getting out of bed.

 

Stops eating.

 

Stops living.

 

He’s endured long enough.

 

It’s not hard. He’s too tired, and it hurts too much.

 

 ~oOo~

It’s not until he misses his third session in the studio that they send someone to check on him. A lowly intern shows up at his door and rings the bell. She’s persistent. When he doesn’t answer she looks for a spare key. It’s not hidden well, sitting on the front step under a pot that holds a dead plant. She lets herself in and knows immediately that something is terribly wrong.

 

She calls the authorities.

 

The news breaks that he’s been found. They rule it an accidental death. After all, who would starve themselves to death?

 

His ‘friends’ and family all plead ignorance. ‘He was such a good lad, such a good friend. Can’t imagine what could have happened.’ It’s spun and worked and added to the lore of the group. He is replaced and forgotten. His name and image are used to sell tribute albums and books and DVDs. People sell stories about how they knew him, and how devastated they are that he’s gone.

 

His grave marked by a small stone with his name. There are no flowers.

 

No visitors.

 

But it doesn’t hurt anymore.


End file.
